Children of Eden
by Ariyah's rider
Summary: (AU.) Two years ago they lost Dean. One year ago, they killed the Demon. This is real life though, and revenge doesn't heal any wounds. It's been two years since his oldest son died, and John is wondering if he lost both sons in that crash.
_**GENERAL WARNING:**_ _This isn't light reading. If you're here looking for a fun story to pass the time, I suggest you move on. That being said, this story does end on a high note rather than a low one, and I like to think of it as a hopeful story, not a depressing one.
_

* * *

 _ **Children of Eden**_

John Winchester was beginning to fear he'd never get his youngest son back.

Oh, Sam was better than he had been, no doubt. Sam's lingering looks on guns and knives, and John's obsession with keeping any and all medication firmly under his own control had slackened. Sam was…stable.

But he was a mere shadow of the fiery young man that John remembered and had so often butted heads with. Not to say they didn't argue, they still did from time to time. In a twisted way, John almost liked when they did, because it was only then that he would see the light in Sam's eyes he remembered. Such were the only real glimpses he got of the son he'd lost when Dean died.

After killing the Demon, Sam took an even worse spiral downwards and John almost lost him. He couldn't let Sam alone without fear pooling his gut for months afterwards. Sam had finally gotten fed up with it, the constant supervision, and promised his father he "wouldn't do anything stupid", asking only to be left alone in return.

That was just over a year ago now.

They say that time heals all wounds. John knew he still missed Dean and his presence every day, he couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like for Sam. Time only seemed to make Sam's condition worse, as his youngest tried to drag himself through life without his brother. It was hard to watch, and as much as John knew Sam was trying, he didn't think either of them really knew _why_ he was.

John wished it was for him, but he wasn't sure. Sam was distant and drifting, and John just couldn't reach him. He'd never known how. Dean always had, but Dean was gone.

Sam had become functional, in the last year. He was brutally good at hunting. He didn't talk much, never laughed, and John considered it a true accomplishment if he could coax a smile from his younger son. He was making an effort to help Sam, and his only indication that he was doing any good was a quiet "thanks Dad, for everything" Sam had whispered one night when he thought John was asleep.

Sam was mechanical most of the time. He ran on a schedule, which rarely changed. He woke at the same time every morning, did the same things, made his bed the same goddamn way. These days, he usually got breakfast. John noticed he always walked, even if it was far. He refused to take the car, which was John's truck because neither he nor John had the heart to fix the Impala without Dean.

It still sat, a gravestone and a relic, on Bobby's property. Like a monument and memorial to a lost brother and quiet hero the world would never know. Bobby had set it down in a secluded part of his property, a nice patch of earth under a few trees, where the rest of the yard could be seen. John had found Sam there countless times, whenever they saw Bobby.

John had reconnected with the other hunter because, like it or not, Bobby was good with his boys. After Sam's attempt at his own life, John had taken them there so that he had another pair of eyes on his son. He'd finally resigned himself to asking for help with Sam because now there wasn't a Dean to pick up the slack when he just couldn't cut it for Sam, and he couldn't afford to fall short any more.

But, while Sam was certainly in a better place now than he was a year ago, he'd stagnated. He wasn't suicidal, thank God, but he wasn't much of anything else either. Sam mostly just went through the motions of life. He was alive, but that was about it. Occasionally, John would get brief impressions of the man Sam once was. Sometimes, out of the blue, Sam would say something, crack a joke, smile, be his old self just for the briefest of seconds. They were like shadows, passing over the back of John's eyes, before vanishing like they had never been conceived or witnessed.

John knew Sam would never be the same without Dean. He wasn't so much a fool to think something like that. He was just afraid he'd never have Sam back at all.

He'd come to, in a manner, accept the man Sam was now. Broken and missing pieces of himself, trying to survive by holding on to what made sense, doing the only thing he knew how. Sam was damaged, more than likely beyond repair, and John just had to be willing to take what Sam was able to give him. It was broken and bent and messy, but what Sam gave – getting breakfast, watching his back, cleaning the truck, looking out for himself, researching hunts, just _staying_ – was all he could.

Something in Sam was permanently broken, and the easiest thing to name it was his ability to express himself. Words were infrequent things from Sam these days. Everything he said had a point. He didn't just _talk_ like he used to. Maybe he thought John didn't want to hear it, maybe he didn't want to hear the silence where Dean's words once stood. Whatever the reason, that was just how it was. So he acted, expressed himself that way, or in whispered words when he thought no one could hear.

And John had to be ok with that. Because it was Sam trying his best, to live, to go on, to be ok, after a part of his soul was ripped out.

That was an admirable thing, and John was proud of Sam for it. It was just hard to get that across, because the one time John had said it, Sam had just stared at him, confused, and then swallowed his voice for almost two days.

Today, unlike most days, John was actually up before Sam came back with breakfast. How exactly Sam had learned what John liked to eat for breakfast, he would never know, but he appreciated it. It was probably observation. Sam had gotten a lot better at noticing things over the past year; few things slipped his notice now.

John was looking for another hunt. It was less an obsession for him now, more of a "keep Sam alive and semi-functional" plan. John had quickly figured out that Sam needed some purpose to keep going, and "saving people and hunting things" was as good as any. There was less urgency, but Sam didn't do well sitting around for long, so John figured he'd look for something else. Even though it had been no more than a day before that they finished up the hunt here in Arizona, Sam had already seemed a bit fidgety last night.

There were a few potential hunts not far from where they were, one in Texas looking like a very promising haunted house. John sighed, closing up Sam's laptop, which he was allowed to borrow. Sam had given him permission when they had only been able to afford one new one and John had given it to Sam as a sort of peace offering after a bad fight. He ran a hand over his face before looking around at the room.

Sam had cleaned up all of the walls from their hunt before he went to sleep, it seemed. Sleep was something that often eluded Sam until the poor kid was all but dead on his feet. John knew it was a choice. The more exhausted he was, the less likely he was to dream.

Looking down to the table in front of him, John saw something that he hadn't noticed before. One of the tourist pamphlets from the front office sat staring up at him, Technicolor pictures of Grand Canyon landscapes and rushing rivers. It hadn't been there before. He knew that for a fact because neither he nor Sam had picked them up when they checked in and neither Winchester had been back to the front desk since.

Though, come to think of it, he did see Sam staring at them while John was checking them in. He'd written it off to Sam zoning out at the time, something Sam was rather prone to doing, but now…with the mysterious pamphlet, he wasn't quite so sure.

Sam didn't ask for things. Not anymore. He languished in his want of something until someone else picked up on what he needed, and was able to give it to him. It wasn't malicious in nature, and John still wasn't entirely sure what the cause of that particular quirk was. He just knew it existed, so he was usually paying close attention to Sam and his current state whenever he could. Because Sam didn't talk.

He just kept going until he couldn't any more, if nobody stopped him.

This, the apparent leaving of brochures on their motel table, was the closest Sam had gotten to actually asking for something in over a year.

That had to be progress of some kind, right?

The problem was, Sam was still shy about asking and if John had to guess – and it was a wild guess – why, he'd say it was because Sam was skittish about being selfish. Sam doing what he wanted, getting what he wanted, had done damage in the past. Maybe he was afraid of it now.

So John came up with a plan, a way of giving Sam what he "asked" for, without giving away that was what was happening.

When Sam nudged the door open about half an hour later, laden with food and coffee, John was sitting at the little table with the laptop open, the flyer long gone, tucked into his duffle bag. If Sam thought it odd his father was up, he didn't comment. He just put the coffee and food down, and fished through the bag, pulling out breakfast for both of them. John glanced over when a coffee cup and breakfast sandwich found themselves sitting at his elbow, then looked at Sam.

A quick once over told John that Sam hadn't slept very well, that it hadn't been a good night, and most likely wouldn't be a good day. Sam was staring at his food, knowing he should eat it, but feeling the furthest thing from hungry.

John looked back to his own food, then back to Sam.

"You alright, son?" He asked, his voice gruff but he made sure to put care and worry into his tone. Just another lesson learned from Singer.

Sam looked up at him, opening his mouth as if to reply, then letting a long silence drag between them. "Yeah." He said, finally, the word barely more than a whisper. John knew he was lying, but he also knew that Sam wouldn't say anything more, without prompting.

"You wanna talk about it?" John asked, still looking at his son from over the top of the laptop. Sam's eyes flicked over to the beds for a moment, before going back to John.

"Not really." He said, shifting his eyes to his food, then back at his father, stopping for a half second on the laptop. "Find anything?" He asked, voice still something of a monotone.

"Nothing good." John replied, sighing and closing the laptop, grabbing his coffee and leaning back. "You gonna eat that, Sam?"

Sam looked down at his food, which was a salad – and Christ if John wasn't a little worried about Sam's weight, with lettuce making up most of his diet these days.

"Think so." Sam said, a ghost of a smile pretended to tug at his face for a second, before flying off like some figment of John's imagination. Sam picked up his fork, playing with his food for a bit as silence dragged between the two of them. Once, John would have called it heavy and awkward, but he'd grown used to it, learned to just enjoy Sam's company, not wish for him to speak.

He took what Sam could give him, and gave back to Sam what support he could. And if that meant not making the silence weighted, John could do that.

So he just set about eating his own food and drinking his own coffee, and smiling internally when Sam began to eat.

"It was about the Demon." Sam said, and John took the sudden words in his stride. It wasn't uncommon for Sam to come to the conclusion to answer a question well after it was asked, like he'd only then built up the courage.

"Sam, that bastard is dead. Whatever plans he had, it doesn't matter, not anymore. Not now." John replied, trying to reassure his son. Sam looked at his food, nodding.

"I just…" John waited a moment for Sam to continue on his own, before prompting him.

"Just what, Sam?"

"Nothing."

"Sam." John narrowed his eyes, his voice growing stern. He hated having to push and pry at Sam, trying to dig under the great barrier that his youngest had constructed to protect himself. He knew it hurt Sam to do, but sometimes, it was impossible to avoid.

"It's nothing. You're right. It's over."

And, they were back to two word sentences. John sighed, knowing Sam was done talking about the subject, and if he wanted to hear his son's voice at all for the next few days, it would be best to just leave it.

Time to put his plan into play then.

Sam closed his salad box, the food itself only about half eaten, and wandered over to the kitchenette, his shoulders drawn up in effort to protect himself against foes only he knew, and John knew he had to do something to try to ease it.

"So I've been thinking." John began, taking a hopefully casual drink from his coffee. It was harder than ever to lie to Sam, but John figured that this was only a half lie and maybe it was worth the effort. Sam's shoulders shifted a little, telling John he was listening. "There aren't any hunts popping up, at least nothing promising."

"Monsters don't take vacations." Sam replied, his voice thick, but John was just glad they were back to more than two words at a time. "There's always something to hunt."

"Well, apparently not." Except a possible poltergeist in a house in Texas but Sam was more important than that right now. "So, I thought, maybe since we're so close any way, we could stop by the Canyon."

He watched Sam's head shift a little to the side, and then his son turned around. The expression on his face, one of confusion and incredulity, was so familiar that John almost grinned and cried at the sight.

But he had to back up his story, before Sam began to tell him to drop it.

"I've been crisscrossing this country for almost 25 years now and you know what? I've never even seen it." John took a deep breath, shrugging a little. "Maybe I'm getting sentimental in my old age" – Sam smiled for the briefest of moments and John's heart soared – "but I'd like to go and see it. We can go up to Bobby's after, he's bound to have something for us, and if not, you can always go through his library again."

Sam was staring at him with an unreadable expression, but at least he was wearing an expression, as opposed to the mask of nothingness he tended to wear these days.

"Ok." He finally said, and John raised his eyebrows.

"Ok?"

"Yeah. Just…let me take a shower first. I still smell like burning chupacabra." Sam said, and then gave his father a slightly forced, but golden effort of a smile, before slipping out of the kitchenette and to the bathroom after John gave him a nod.

And that smile, forced or otherwise, was the best thing John had seen all week.

* * *

John took them to the North Rim, because after a little looking he discovered it was less crowded most of the time. He figured Sam would prefer fewer people.

They made it into the park as it was nearing sunset, and the south rim was bound to be full of people. But, there were clouds beginning to pull in; maybe with the threat of rain people would leave.

The gamble proved true, at least on the North Rim, as they were just about the only people around where John finally pulled his truck to a stop. He caught sight of some people on a pathway, but he didn't care to join them. Instead he chose a less worn looking path. Sam was a few steps behind, having stopped to grab something out of the trunk.

Sam followed silently, taking in the world around them as John took them both to a secluded area where no one else sat, and dropped onto the chair-like rock he'd found.

Sam walked, silent as the grave and smooth as calm water, past John and over to the edge of the canyon wall. John sat up a little straighter as Sam's toes came close to the rim. There was no guard rail where he'd settled them, nothing to stop a strong wind blowing his last son away from him.

Part of him was still afraid that it wouldn't even take a breeze to cast Sam down.

Sam's toe scuffing at the rock edge while he stared at his feet didn't help the unease in John's gut, but he said nothing. Just watched his youngest like a hawk, for any sign that he might stumble.

The sun sank lower, and Sam still stood there, staring out at it all, taking it in like some kind of sponge. John wondered what he was looking for out there. The canyon walls were painted red like blood and flame, even as indigo clouds boiled across the sky, thundering and threatening. The wind whipping and whistling through the canyon was the only sound to be heard, any birds and creatures hiding, lying in wait for the coming storm. There was something visceral and spectacular about it, John could not deny. He couldn't deny that he'd wanted to see it as well, though it had been one of those things that seemed to drop from his mind after Mary died.

He was glad he got to see it before he died.

"It's beautiful."

Sam's voice was so clear and stark against the silence that John almost jumped.

"Isn't it?"

John looked up, expecting to find Sam looking at him, but instead saw his youngest – only, now – son looking out at the canyon still.

It struck John then that Sam had just said something essentially pointless, and he'd asked a question. Two things John hadn't heard from him in over a year.

"It is." John replied.

He flinched – not something he was proud of – when Sam moved. But Sam took a step back from the edge, then shifted until he was sitting down on the edge, legs hanging over, arms in his lap resting on whatever it was he was carrying.

John wasn't sure why, but he got up from his position and joined his son on the canyon edge. A glance at Sam's lap told him what Sam had grabbed from the trunk. His – Dean's – old leather jacket.

It was sitting on top of their spare blanket in Sam's arms, but John figured it was Dean's jacket that was the important part of the ensemble. John knew Sam had it, but he'd never seen it since Dean had died. He figured it was too painful a thing for Sam. Maybe the jacket was a bigger, clearer reminder than Dean's amulet, which had taken up residence on Sam's chest, under his shirt, and never left.

Sam was staring at the leather jacket, absently running his long, thin fingers over its worn surface. John watched him for a long while, even after Sam turned his attention back to the canyon. There was something, other than the blankness, shimmering beneath Sam's eyes.

They sat in another long silence, watching as the storm rolled through, casting sheets of rain across the red sky, catching colors of purple and yellow as it fell. Lighting struck the canyon wall, sharp thunder echoed around them, and John saw the small shapes of other tourists scuttling away.

The clouds drifted off and the sun dropped even further, cold beginning to come around them as the canyon went from bloody to bruised.

"He wanted to come here." Sam said suddenly, making John look from the violet canyon over to his son. There was little question who _he_ was, but John still felt confusion. Dean had never struck him as the sightseeing, tourist type. The sort of guy who'd want to see the Grand Canyon.

"He said he wanted to see it with us." Sam took a deep breath. "Wanted to act like a normal family, just once. I said no."

John wasn't really sure of when Sam was speaking of, but he figured it didn't really matter. John knew Sam had many regrets when it came to his brother. He seemed to be an endless well of them, mourning one action or another almost all the time. John wished he'd taught his sons how to let things go, not been a shining example of how to cling to something until it takes everything you have and hold dear. Even telling Sam he had to let go, forgive himself, would ring false coming from John.

"Sam…"

"I couldn't have seen it. Could I?" John frowned, unsure what Sam was talking about. "I've run it over and over. Done all the what ifs a thousand times."

"The truck?" John asked carefully, and Sam nodded. John closed his eyes, trying not to let his heart break. _Oh, Sam…_ "No. You couldn't have seen it. It's not your fault."

Sam's eyes flicked around, scanning over the canyon at lighting speed. John was pretty sure Sam wasn't really looking at it anymore.

"I couldn't do it." Sam whispered, his voice so small and childlike; John suddenly wasn't looking at a twenty-four-year-old Sam, but a six-year-old boy.

"Do what?" John asked, though he wasn't sure he needed the answer, and wasn't sure he wanted it.

"Shoot you." Sam replied, and John had to fight the urge to hang his head.

Just one thing on a long list of things he never should have asked of either of his sons. He never should have asked Sam to look him in the eye and shoot him in the heart, not with Dean begging reprieve behind him.

"Sometimes I wish I had."

That really wasn't much of a surprise to John. He'd always known that in a contest between a brother and father, for either son, they would pick each other. He'd constructed that relationship between them, intentionally and unintentionally. He couldn't lament the choices now.

John kept silent. Sam seemed to be in a speaking mood, something so rare these days that John was afraid to speak for fear of breaking the spell.

"But I'm glad you're here."

That was a surprise, and John frowned at Sam, studying him closer, trying to read the enigma that his son had become. Always had been, really.

"I don't really think I could have done this alone." Sam continued. "Thanks for putting up with me." John didn't really know how he was supposed to respond to such a statement, so he kept quiet.

Sam didn't speak again for a very long while, the sun had slipped away and John began to feel the cold seeping into his bones, nipping at his skin. But he dared not move, because Sam still sat there, staring out and now up at the stars. Something about this place had some kind of effect on Sam, it was pulling him out of himself, and John was going to take whatever this place had to give, whatever Sam chose to hand out.

"I miss him." It was so quiet and soft a whisper that had it not been utterly silent around them, John would have missed it.

Those three words were the first time Sam had ever spoken of missing his brother. Usually, it was just a 'he's gone' or something of the kind. Like Sam was still in process of convincing himself that Dean really was dead and never coming back.

"I know." John sighed, following Sam's gaze outward. "I miss him too."

"I know. I'm sorry." Sam replied, and John frowned, turning back to look at Sam again.

"Sorry? For what Sam?"

"For…" Sam trailed off, sighing, then hanging his head. "For not helping you. You've had to look after me like a child this past year, I've scared you and wallowed in my own misery. I know I scared you. I almost…I did give up. You saved me and I can't even…" Sam stared down at his hands.

"I'm trying, to get better, to be Sam again but I just can't. It's like I'm broken and half of me died with Dean and no matter how hard I try I can't resurrect myself. And I know it hurts you, to see me like this…and I'm trying to be better…"

"It's alright Sam." John said, and he smiled sadly. "I know you're trying, and I'm proud of you, kiddo. You're doing well." Sam looked up at him, frowning, confused and – blessed be – hopeful. "I don't expect you to be the same as before Sam. I'm no fool and I am no stranger to loosing the people you love. I know what it does to a man."

Sam gave him a ghost of a smile, and John pulled his son over to him, leaning Sam's thinner frame against his own.

An idea sparked in John's head, and bubbled up his throat before he could deny it. "You know, your mother loved the stars." He said quietly. "When Dean was about three, there was a meteor shower, and she took him outside at 2 in the morning to see it. They stayed outside for hours, even after it was over, just looking at the stars."

"Is that why Dean liked them?" Sam asked, and John smiled.

"I think so." He replied. Sam was silent for a long while, half leaning on his father, then he stood quickly, making John jerk in surprise and fear a little, and he caught Sam's regretful glance. John tried to give his son a smile, but Sam had turned around by then.

John watched as Sam wandered around in a circle for a moment, as if he was mulling something over, then looked at the coat in his hands.

John was surprised when Sam seemed to make a split moment's choice and put it on, shrugging the worn leather around his thin shoulders. He held it around himself for a brief moment, then stooped, picking up a stone. He came back to where John was sitting, put the rock down, then walked back behind John to get another.

It only took two or three repetitions of the action for John to figure out what Sam was doing.

John pushed himself up, trying to ignore stiffening joints and protests of his bones, and joined his son in building an ebenezer to their lost family member. Dean didn't have a grave, they didn't bury him, didn't leave a sign of their funeral pyre except for a patch of dead grass. Dean's gravestone was the derelict bones of the car he loved sitting in the glade of a scrap yard, and now a pile of stones overlooking the greatest wound in the earth.

Somehow, calling the canyon that, a great wound, seemed fitting, considering what they were putting here for it to watch and be watched by. The world's deepest gash looked over by the reminder of the deepest gash in both of them.

John wondered if this had been Sam's intention all along. It wouldn't have surprised him. Sam was full of mysteries and odd ways of thinking. He didn't speak about doing things before he did them anymore; he lived mostly inside his head.

Tonight, John had been allowed inside his son's head, gotten a glimpse of the little world in there that Sam occupied. John hoped he'd put a little rest to the fears and shames running around in Sam's mind. He'd gotten a few smiles from Sam tonight, which was better than most.

Sam put the last stone on Dean's little cairn, and John stood beside and just behind him as he looked out on the now dark canyon.

"There." He said quietly, one hand drifting up to the amulet he'd given Dean long ago and never taken off since… Sam took a deep breath, then turned and looked at his father with a small, but somehow bright smile on his features.

"We'll have to come back to check on it next year." John said, giving Sam a knowing look and speaking with weighted words.

Sam's smile widened, and he gave a breathless laugh, and John's heart soared at the sound as Sam ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked just like his old self in those motions, and John chose not to let it break his heart.

"Yeah I guess we will." Sam replied, and his smile faded away, but somehow he looked no less content.

"Come on, we have to make it well out of here if we're going to find a place to stay for the night before going to Bobby's." John said, reaching out to Sam. His son nodded, coming to walk beside his father.

Whether it was compulsion, a fatherly instinct that had laid dormant in him for too many years, or a moment of madness, John would never know, but his wrapped his arm around Sam's shoulders and pulled him close as they walked back to the truck.

* * *

John stayed up later than Sam for the first time in a long time that night. By the time John had come out of the bathroom to ask Sam if he wanted the shower; Sam was sleeping.

John chose to let him, and just watched.

Sam had always been a restless sleeper. John smiled himself, recalling the numerous times he'd been woken up over the younger years of his sons, Dean complaining that Sam was kicking him. When he was resting deeply, John knew, Sam looked peaceful, even if he was still prone to movement in his rest.

At the moment, however, Sam was still in sleep, and he didn't look like he was sleeping very well. Instead, he seemed to be skittering on the edges of dreams, stuck in the "sleep of the dead" that only came from pure exhaustion.

The extent of Sam's exhaustion had clearer indications though, considering that he was on top of the covers and still in his clothes, only having removed his boots. Typically, considering his stature, his feet hung off the edge of the bed, completing a rather sad picture.

Looking at the table separating the two beds, John spotted Dean's jacket, folded up and placed carefully there like a precious artifact. He stood, going over and running a hand over the leather jacket that he'd gifted to his son long ago now.

 _I know I'm failing your brother Dean._ He thought in silent prayer, as if Dean could still hear him. _I've known that for a while. God…how do I help him Dean? I was never good with Sammy, you know that. That's why I let you take care of him. You were so good to him. I…I only ever broke him, didn't I?_

 _How do I help him now?_

 _I wish I could give you back…_

There were ways, John knew. And now, maybe, with the demon gone, it would be worth it…for Sam. John knew how his sons were. He'd always known.

All he'd have to do is just…

"Dad?" John's gaze jerked down at the sound of Sam's sleepy voice. "Som'thin' wrong?" He asked, eyes clouded with exhaustion, and John smiled briefly, shaking his head.

"Nothing's wrong, just thinking. Go back to sleep Sam."

"M'kay." Sam sighed, closing his eyes and drifting back off. _God, he must be exhausted_. John thought, removing his hand from Dean's jacket and sliding into the bed next to Sam's.

That night it took John far longer than usual to get to sleep.

* * *

The next day greeted John with the smell of breakfast and coffee wafting though the motel room, blocking out the musty odor it had the night before. The shower was on, the knocking sound of old pipes most likely the cause of John's wakening. He rolled over on his side, glancing at Sam's already made bed before he pulled himself out of his own, grimacing as his aging body protested.

25 some odd years of hunting and definitely drinking too much had done a number on his body.

Sitting on the edge of his bed a moment, he ran a hand over his face. It was a little odd, the feeling of having nothing pressing to do. True, they were headed to Singer's, but they usually did that with a task in mind, or they were just passing through, and John stopped to give Sam the closest thing he could have to a conversation with Dean. Actually going to Singer's without much to do, it didn't happen all that often.

John finally leveraged himself out of the creaky old motel bed and walked over to the motel table, where Sam had left his food waiting for him.

He fished it out of the bag and grabbed the coffee out of the pressed paper pulp holder, then walked back to the nightstand and picked up his phone.

He might as well give Bobby warning before they showed up, even if Singer always said that they were welcome whenever they needed to stop by. John usually interpreted, Singer's hospitality as being directed mostly to Sam, but as time went on he and Singer got along better than in the past.

Maybe it was because he was actually giving Sam the time of day and looking out for him now. Singer had always been particular about that.

John had received another berating over the phone from Bobby when he told the man they were coming.

 _Ya don't have to tell me when you're comin', ya idjit. Just get Sam and yourself up here._

Singer had at least expressed approval when John told him why they were coming. There was no real reason, they were just resting. Singer seemed to agree with John that it was a good idea, both men knew Sam was probably run ragged. He'd spoken with the other hunter a little about their foray to the Grand Canyon, another action met with approval.

Bobby seemed to share John's own tentative assessment that Sam was doing better.

John kept his other intentions to himself. For now, they were a whisper in the back of his mind, but they were growing louder with every minute of Sam's silent suffering in the passenger seat.

Sam didn't speak the whole drive to Singer's house. He just sat and read a book, occupying his thoughts and the silence. Another habit he'd developed after Dean died, and after the Demon was killed. Another way to occupy himself, keep his thoughts from far off and foul places.

John couldn't help thinking that Dean would know what to do. Dean wouldn't just sit here feeling useless, he'd say something, do something, and make it better somehow. He must have been able to, because John knew he must have salvaged Sam after his girlfriend's death. John shut his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath.

Opening his eyes back to the road, he saw Sam looking at him out of the corner of his eye. _Are you ok_ was the silent question lingering there, and John felt something cold settle inside him. Sam was back to asking silent questions with vague expressions.

John gave a half wave without taking his hand off the steering wheel. It wasn't enough to satisfy Sam at first, but eventually he turned back to his book.

John wasn't sure what he expected really, nor did he know why he'd deluded himself into thinking that one pit stop at a national park would do Sam any real good. It was foolish, but he had hoped.

But Sam hadn't changed, not really. And he was never going to get better. John couldn't make him better, only Dean had that power.

When they pulled into Bobby's house, Sam took his stuff up to the guest room without much comment, though he did stop and say hello to Singer. After he dropped his duffel upstairs, he left the house, wandering off into the yard.

"He's not very chatty today." Singer said when John came back into the living room. John sat down on the couch with a sigh.

"He's making up for talking so much yesterday." John replied, drawing a hand over his face. "Hasn't said more than a few words."

"You've got to be patient with him, John." Bobby said. "We both know he only talks when he wants."

"Or when he thinks he can." John sighed, looking over at the other hunter. "I really screwed them up, didn't I?" Singer raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"You did." He said bluntly, and John laughed bitterly, looking away. "But you're trying to do right by him now. Believe me, that matters a lot, especially to Sam."

"Something still tells me it's too little too late." Singer paused, regarding John carefully before he spoke again.

"Whether it is or isn't, it's what he's got and what you can give. Stop badgering yourself about should'ves and would'ves. It's not going to help you, and it's certainly not going to help Sam." John stared at Singer a moment, then looked away, out the window.

"Where do you think he went?" He asked, even thought he already knew the answer.

"Where he always goes. To talk to his brother." Bobby replied. "Give him some time alone John. He needs it, Sam's like that. You following him around just bugs him."

"Just worried about him."

"Well stop it. Sam's a lot better than when he tried to…he won't do it again." Bobby said, sidestepping the phrase _tried to kill himself_ because the truth was, seeing Sam like that, with a knife at his arm once and gun to his head the second time, it left deep scars in both men. John would be lying if he said he didn't have nightmares about it, about being too late, and he was pretty sure it was the same for Singer.

Better or otherwise, John still didn't feel like he'd done enough. Sam had pulled himself from his hole. John had done very little of substance to help.

It took an hour, but John got antsy and went to look for Sam. He found his son where he expected to, sitting on the ground, leaning against the Impala in its little grove.

Sam looked up at him as he approached, and to John's surprise, scooted a little to the side, as if to let John sit next to him. John didn't know how his knees would feel about getting back up, so he opted to just lean on the car's wrecked fender.

"You're thinking about something." Sam's voice cut into the quiet quickly, his tone flat and somehow accusatory. "Planning something."

John frowned, looking down at Sam, and found narrowed eyes staring back at him.

"What is it?" Sam asked, his voice level.

"Nothing Sam."

"Don't lie to me." Sam replied, and John clenched his jaw. Sam was onto him, for the inklings of thoughts that had been bubbling up all day. "You're thinking about something. You've haven't tried to get me to talk all day, you always do that."

"I'm sorry-"

"I'm not mad." Sam cut him off. John raised an eyebrow, _could've fooled me._ "I just…I think I know what it is."

John crouched down by Sam now, putting them back on eye level.

"I was just thinking…" John began slowly, running a hand over his head and through greying hair. "I know you're doing better, I know that…but I think I've outlived my usefulness for you…I don't think I did you any good anyway. The way a raised you and Dean…it was wrong. I was wrong. I hurt you both, and I can't make up for now. It's too little, too late. I was thinking…if I could bring Dean back, he'd be better for you, he always was and-"

"You're thinking of making a deal." Sam said quietly, his voice barely over a whisper. John nodded slowly.

"For you and for Dean." John replied. "Make up for some of what I did to you both."

Sam stared at John a long moment, and John hung his head, he already expected Sam's answer. He knew what it would be. Sam would ask him to do it, to give his brother back. He was no fool.

Gravel crunched underfoot and suddenly, John felt a pair of arms clutch around him and heard a whispered _no_ in his ear.

Sam was clinging to his father like a lifeline, and John found he couldn't return the fierce embrace because he was too shocked by it. Sam was shaking, his fingers digging almost painfully into John's back. It was a possessive hold, as if Sam was daring the world to try and take his father away.

And John didn't understand.

"Don't. Don't do it, I need you." Sam pleaded, his voice broken but forceful. "I need you." It was a desperate whisper, and John just didn't know how to answer.

"You'd have Dean back…" John said, and then the air was crushed out of him even more, the grasp on him getting even more desperate, Sam's long fingers fisting into his jacket and shirt. It was painful, raw and frantic.

"I don't care. I need you. I want you." The words were ground into John's shoulder, and he slowly brought his arms up to touch on Sam's back, feeling the tremors there. He could almost count Sam's ribs, he'd lost so much weight. "I shouldn't have said what I did at the canyon, I'm sorry-" John began to draw away, trying to look Sam in the eye.

"Sam don't-"

"No! Listen to me, please, Dad, just this once, ok? Because right now, I can get this out and I don't know when I'll be able to again." Sam begged, drawing away from his father so he could look him in the eye, and John nodded him on slowly. "I miss Dean. I miss him a lot. Some days it nearly kills me, I miss him so much it hurts and sometimes I can barely breathe because it feels like someone is ripping my heart out of my chest." John looked down, swallowing thickly. "And every time that I feel like that, every time, you've been what saves me."

John's head snapped up, frowning as he looked into Sam's clear, sincere eyes. The son he thought he'd lost - the one with eyes full of passion and fire - was staring back at him.

"You saved my life dad. And not just that day you found me in that motel room or out here. You've done it countless times since then."

"But - I - How?" John stuttered, and Sam gave him a small, sad smile.

"You were there. You didn't leave me. You never gave up on me. You didn't expect too much of me and you were just there. That was all I needed." Sam replied. "That's all I still need. I don't need Dean. He's dead and I have to accept that, and so do you. He's not coming back, and as much as that hurts…we can't change it." Sam took a deep shuddering sigh, looking up at the sky for a moment. He turned back to his father with a wry smile on his face.

"You carried me this far Dad. Maybe it's my turn to carry you." He said, and John dropped his head. "No deals Dad. I don't need it. And yeah, growing up was rough, but it's _over_. It's done and I've forgiven you for it. It's over." John looked back at Sam, and found him smiling at him softly, quiet but powerful affection in his eyes. "You're my _dad_. You're all I've got left, I'm not letting you go. Dean would never forgive me. _I_ would never forgive me. I didn't pick Dean's life over yours before, I won't do it now."

John looked away for a moment, taking a deep breath and leaning against the Impala behind them. Sam's arms finally dropped off John's shoulders, into his own lap, but he still sat on his knees in front of his father.

"No deals Dad. What you're doing is not too little, and it's not too late. I'm still alive, so are you. What you've done, what you're still doing, as far as I'm concerned, is more than enough at just the right moment." Sam said softly.

"No deals?" John asked, half joking, after a long silence. Sam scowled at him.

"No deals." He replied, and John nodded, understanding that Sam didn't find the situation at all funny. John could relate; he loathed any humor having to do with suicide.

"Ok." John took a deep breath, and looked his son in the eye. "I promise not to do anything stupid." Sam twitched a smile, and shuffled back to sit next to his father on the ground, leaning on the Impala.

"I can take that." Sam replied, looking up at the sky. He stared at it for a long while before speaking again. "Do you think he's watching us?"

John smiled. "Knowing Dean, he's probably yelling at us both for being idiots." Sam huffed a half laugh, looking down.

"Yeah…we've both been a little off kilter."

"I think we have a good excuse."

"Yeah."

John looked over to his son, then looked up at the sky. "I'm sure he is, Sam. He's watching over us, right beside your mother."

John looked back to Sam, and saw his eyes getting glassy. John couldn't remember the last time Sam cried, it must have been ages ago. At least a year.

Thinking about it now, it had been a long time for John too. And, God, he wanted to sometimes. Late nights when everything got to be too much and the world tried to crush him.

"We're gonna be ok." Sam said, but John got the feeling he wasn't speaking to anyone present. He was talking to Dean, to Mary, the people they'd lost. He was promising to them.

Those left behind would survive.

Sam took a deep, shuddering breath, and John knew he saw tear tracks on his son's face. Somehow, he didn't think that was a bad thing. "We should go back. Bobby might burn dinner if we let him."

John looked at Sam, frowning, and Sam smirked a little.

"I'm allowed to make jokes, Dad."

John stared a moment longer, watching Sam as he got up and dusted himself off. "I should have taken you sightseeing a long time ago." Sam glanced back down, and sighed.

"I'm having a good day." He said. "I'm trying." _It's not always going to be like this, don't get too hopeful_. John heard the unspoken warning and nodded. He understood, but it was progress. Perhaps Sam hadn't stagnated as much as John thought.

John took Sam's extended hand and allowed himself to be helped up. It was odd, but he felt lighter than he had when coming out here. Much lighter.

He wasn't foolish. He knew that not all days would be like this, and that the road ahead would be hard. But he had something he hadn't in a while. Hope. Hope that though things might not be what they were, they could be better. They could be good.

He'd forgotten that. And he'd forgotten Sam's aptitude for giving it back.

He promised himself not to forget again.


End file.
